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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866715">When We Reach The Hill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/softwinds/pseuds/softwinds'>softwinds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Padmaavat (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I Tried, M/M, Master/Slave, Pining, Power Imbalance, Resolved Sexual Tension, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:40:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866715</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/softwinds/pseuds/softwinds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The perfume,” his new owner asks. “What is the name?”</p><p>“Jannat-ul-Firdaus,” he answers.</p><p>Yes, Alauddin will take it all. Now only from the captured Marhatta slave, but from every man, every soul, from mountains and skies and all the rivers flowing from each and every city. He watches as the governor becomes the Sultan, and laughs with joy he has never produced before. It is freeing, almost.</p><p>-<br/>The first years Malik is in Alauddin's court, and his last ones.</p><p>10/29：<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146941">中文 translation</a> now available.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Malik Kafur/Alauddin Khilji (Padmaavat 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When We Reach The Hill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/quoththewriter/gifts">quoththewriter</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this in a frenzy and it's pretty fast and loose. I CAN't stop thinking abt Alauddin, Malik, Mahru, Padmavati and Ratan Singh ever since Brapp introduced me to this movie (screams). The idea was from Ronan (quoththewriter on AO3) and I'm very grateful that he let me use it!! This fic is also deeply inspired by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641173">Moutain of light</a> because I have read it too many times. It's in my bones now.</p><p>This is only a fic for Padmaavat (2018) and not about any actual historical figures or events. I don't speak hindi (and barely English for that matter) so all the references are likely to be extremely far off&amp;without any accuracy. I sort of gave up upon failing to find out Malik Kafur’s real name... </p><p>tw: wars are mentioned multiple times (although not in graphic details); there are usages of the word s******e (taken from Malik Kafur's wiki page) in one section of this fic and it appears as part of a quote, so please beware if that is triggering for you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Malik Kafur can still recall the coastline of Khambhat, where loud, whistling winds rush through fishermen’s boats at night and hymn with seabirds. The memories are faint, like remembering the taste of black jamun in wintertime, only the vestiges are less than mellow.</p><p>He has been riding with the cavalry for more than two months now, heading towards Delhi. Word among the soldiers is that he will be handed over to the governor of Kara when they arrive— and said governor, a nephew of Sultan Jalaluddin, is not of an amiable reputation. However, Malik has prepared for an even worse fate after the defeat of Gujarat and their king. He is not fainthearted, for he has not a thing to lose. He is ready to serve whoever the fate decides, and with whatever he is quested to offer.</p><p>When sire Alauddin Khilji strides forward and circles him like a daunting jaguar, Malik knows that the man will take it all.</p><p>“The perfume,” his new owner asks. “What is the name?”</p><p>“Jannat-ul-Firdaus,” he answers.</p><p>Yes, Alauddin will take it all. Now only from the captured Marhatta slave, but from every man, every soul, from mountains and skies and all the rivers flowing from each and every city. He watches as the governor becomes the Sultan, and laughs with joy he has never produced before. It is freeing, almost.</p><p>The next day when Malik bows down to his sire, the fresh scent of lotus and jasmine vines into his chest like a wordless praise.</p><p>-</p><p>Malik is a fast learner.</p><p>Within weeks, he already finds out that the Sultan gives his trust to no one. And in return, it is safe to believe that nobody— under any circumstance— should take full faith in the Sultan’s mercy.</p><p>Alauddin is not unreasonably cruel or inhuman, but he has his own set of standards. Malik has seen the man wrestling and getting pushed down into thin sands, grappled by his muscle-bound Mamluk soldiers, the latter soon rewarded with silver Tankas and lambs. On the other hand, when Jalaluddin’s old guards and Amirs snuck out through the night and knocked on his fort gate, promising him their newly-discovered piety with fine words and carts of prizes, they were only met with Alauddin’s mockery. The nobles were summoned one by one before their new Sultan, where Alauddin had Malik blinding their eyes and slitting their throats.</p><p>“Come here, Malik!” Alauddin’s upper body peeks out into the hallway. “Put your sweeps away. The ground is clean enough. Are you doing this to avoid actual work?”</p><p>“No, my sire.” Malik can’t help but smiles. There is only teasing in Alauddin’s voice, and the obviously-pretended annoyance reminds him of a small child.</p><p>His Sultan waves him into the room, and Malik is welcomed by a round of startled chirps in countless tones and notes. They are in Alauddin’s palace for his birds. Parakeets, larks, finches and doves, along with a family of love birds in blue and olive, all chiming in their respective cages, jumping up and down. He watches in awe, until most royal residents cease singing and settle on their stands again.</p><p>“Shut up, Dilnavaz!” Alauddin fuzzes at a cotton-bellied Saw-wings. “He’s a little rascal, only sweet to you when there are millets in your hand. Now, Malik, how much do you know about birds?”</p><p>“I’m not an expert,” Malik admits. “The Khwaja I once served had a serpent eagle for keeping away pests, but I don’t know much about house birds.”</p><p>“That’s alright. Do you think you can learn?”</p><p>“Yes, my sire, if you wish me to.”</p><p>“That’s all I need to hear,” A look of amusement rises upon Alauddin’s eyes. “From now on, I want you to take care of this room. The songbirds, parrots— You will feed them, clean their cages, entertain them if you need to. I don’t want any of my birds feeling down, pecking their own feathers, or having any other problems in that nature. Do you understand?”</p><p>Malik nods. It was an old maid of Mahru who’s in charge of Sultan’s pets: not only the winged ones; she would brush and sing nursery tunes to Alauddin’s elephants, macaques and a pair of tamed lions, either gifted or purchased from Majapahitian merchants— if not from kingdoms even further east or oceans away. <em>Was she not competent enough, or was it something else?</em> Malik wonders. But he is trained to obey and observe, not to question. “I shall protect the Sultan’s possessions with my life.” He answers cheerily.</p><p>Alauddin laughs and shakes his head. To Malik’s surprise, his sire’s strong hand reaches up and abruptly clamps against his jaw. The visage on Alauddin’s face changes completely within the fluttering of a wild cat’s whisker, from a childlike glee to that of a rumbling, thundering sky.</p><p>“Malik, Malik,” the Sultan purrs. “Be smarter. You are here to serve me, not to die for my birds. What do they call you, <em>Hazar-Dinari</em>? Is the story true, that crests of gold were exchanged for your life?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I was never told.” The words are squeezed out from between his teeth, as Alauddin digs into the hollow of his cheeks further and further.</p><p>“And what would people say about the Sultan of Delhi, if he loses a thousand dinars for one tiny sparrow? Will it add to my reputation?”</p><p>Malik hisses in pain. “No, it won't, my sire.”</p><p>The grip on his jaw and cheeks loosens, and suddenly he is let go. Through the swirling colors before his eyes, Alauddin smiles again.</p><p>“Be very nice to my precious little choristers, Malik. The task is only yours because you have my trust. So do be grateful.”</p><p>“I am grateful.” And he is telling the truth. The Sultan’s message is bruising but clear: Malik is protected, valued even, to a degree beyond his footing as an <em>Ahrtaka</em> seized in war, and beyond his merits for violence, labor or pleasure. He is included, as a personal asset, in Alauddin’s ever efflorescing web of existence.</p><p>The Sultan has grasped Malik in his golden cage, and he shall sing his unfeigned song.</p><p>-</p><p>“Get in the tub now, Malik. My legs are sore today. Do something about it.”</p><p>Six mouths, and Malik is finally allowed to touch. Still fully clothed, he scrubs the bottom of his feet clean and carefully steps into the warm water. Alauddin has his hair loose, dark locs curled against his chest and shimmering in candlelight, dripping water down to his abdomen. The Sultan is never shy about showing off his body— he is built like a bull, with the enviable physique of an experienced, well-trained warrior instead of what one might expect for a Khalji noble.</p><p>On the contrast, the Sultan’s face is blessed by the highest goddesses. Every feature is sharp and untamed, from his scars to the dark, unreadable eyes.</p><p>Malik has immense appreciation for his Sultan’s allure, and he would be lying to deny that there are less-than-immaculate thoughts racing in his mind at times, filling his dreams with passion. He sits down and drags Alauddin’s left heel into his lap. The Sultan hums in satisfaction. Malik starts working on the instep and arch of his foot, before moving up to gently massage his calf.</p><p>“Higher, Malik.” Alauddin commands. He looks into Malik’s eyes mischievously, kicking up splashes of water against his chin. Hesitantly, Malik smooths his palms up, over the Sultan’s knee and brushing close to the lower parts of his firm thigh. “Good. Now work on those places.”</p><p><em>Is this a game that Alauddin’s playing?</em> He has been rather affectionate towards Malik, in words and constant rewards, sometimes in suggestive gestures as well. But all further offerings made my Malik, in any nature that was less than complete innocence, have always been denied. He swallows his doubts and starts kneading at the skin underneath his fingers, now slippery with bath water and floral oil. Alauddin adjusts his hips to allow those hands better access, so Malik hesitantly maps up further. His heart is thundering in his chest. He finds himself blushing, despite years of experience and training in being a servant for others’ pleasure.</p><p>Alauddin’s eyes are softly closed. He sighs contentedly, chest rising in a paced rhythm. However, when Malik is dangerously close to the root of his thigh, and subsequently to the beginning of his groin, the Sultan reaches down and nimbly catches his wrist.</p><p>“Not now, Malik. Put yourself together.” He perks up a brow, pushing Malik back with his other foot and presses it into his lap. “Take care of my right leg too.”</p><p>-</p><p>Padmavati weighs on everyone’s heart like a thorn made of lead.</p><p>Malik has begun to wonder if Alauddin is truly in love, and he can tell that Mahru is wondering too. These days, for countless times, he stands and watches as the Empress eyeing her husband over plates of Khichra or Pilaf, with worries burdening her delicate brows and lips.</p><p>Alauddin talks of beauty as if all the marvel in this world lies beneath this Mewar Queen’s veil. He has not seen her face; not yet, but he simply knows— he has heard from Raghav Chetan. The priest who plays tricks with fire has convinced the Sultan that Padmavati is worth spilling blood and scouring lives for.</p><p>In the name of beauty, the Sultan of Delhi will wage wars against the Guhila king.</p><p>It has been almost two years since Malik was given to Alauddin, and this is the first time he has tasted jealousy. Alauddin has mostly been his, and it is the Sultan’s harem who decides to keep it this way— when the Sultan is pestering Malik, the concubines don’t have to worry about him being there and taunting them. Besides, spending time Malik seems to fuel the Sultan’s appetite, which appears to be one of the very few redeeming attributes he has to a woman.</p><p>It is arrogant of Malik, of course, to have a sense of worldly claim on anything at all— He cannot even fathom what vice it must be for a slave to become possessive of a Sultan’s attention.</p><p>His lips are sealed. Or, at least, he tries his best to keep it so.</p><p>Malik is not familiar with losing self-control. Therefore, when it happens (and he is rightfully punished because of that) he only pushes back ten times harder. He bestows himself as a messenger, an instigator for the Khalji army’s morality; he stands in front of Rawal Ratan Singh and stomaches all the belittling sneers, knowing full well the King of Mewar will suffer for his pride and virtues. When his Sultan, wounded and slumped into his throne, breathing in agony, he lets the man’s palm steady his bitter lips.</p><p>“I can’t, my sire.” he mutters. Malik Kafur will not be an apostate. If Queen Padmavati is drawn up in Alauddin’s destiny as the high-reaching star of love, Malik will lead the quarry and build a thousand stairs. There must be no place for him in Alauddin’s fate, for he has not a thing to lose, and not a thing to give. And he accepts that.</p><p>-</p><p>But in the end, when all is said and done, Malik Kafur will not watch his Sultan die.</p><p>-</p><p>The first kiss they share happens in Alauddin’s privy garden. Their failed conquest for the Mewar Queen has proven to be a dreary force, and the Sultan has spent the past sixteen months seeking any and all distractions. An attempt was made to revamp the royal garden. <em>Ala’i Yeni Saray</em>, as he calls it, <em>Alauddin’s New Palace</em>. Elm trees and willows were brought in and planted, as well as cypresses and patches of jasmine flowers. The plants have been growing strong after a year, so Malik suggests the Sultan to try and add in even more liveliness.</p><p>“I will be very upset if any of them dies, Malik. And I mean <em>very</em> upset.”</p><p>“They will not, my sire. They are meant to fly among tree branches and newly-grown leaves.” Malik assures. They have released the first flock of birds into the garden— five or six white doves, now curiously exploring the new environment. Alauddin does not bicker back, only leading Malik further into the garden path.</p><p>“What’s the name of that one?” Alauddin stops and points his chin at one of the doves, who has a tiny black mark on the base of its nape and a thin silver ring around its leg. Malik has put it on them to identify their own birds.</p><p>He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have a name yet, my sire. Would you like to name it?”</p><p>The Sultan grumbles. “There is no need. What is the use anyway? It’s not like we will see it again.”</p><p>Malik lowers his gaze to conceal his amusement. “Of course we will, my sire. It is going nowhere. We have all the seeds and fruits it can eat.”</p><p>“It will not fly away, even though we have freed it from its cage and chain?”</p><p>The conversation has drifted from the Sultan’s original question, and Malik has a feeling that they are no longer talking about doves. He looks up and finds Alauddin’s face close in front of him, his figure tall and looming, dark eyes showering him with an intense gaze. Malik holds his breaths. There are words and speeches he is dying to let voice, poems and tunes his heart would perform, but he should not, for Alauddin had turned him down again and again many months ago and Malik has decided to bury his desires. He will give the plain and honest answer, and he <em>will</em> be satisfied.</p><p>“No, my sire. It is your bird, and always will be,” he replies, “It will never wander too far away, for it remembers the love and comfort you have graciously provided.”</p><p>Alauddin chuckles. He tugs Malik close by the small of his back and fists his fingers into his shorter, tightly curled hair. Alauddin pulls his wrist, forcing Malik to look up against his own nose tip.</p><p>“I shall call it Malik then. <em>Malik Kafur</em>,” the Sultan studies his face with an inquisitivity he has never seen before. “And you will now show me how it pays back my love.”</p><p>Hesitantly, Malik rolls onto his tiptoes and pecks at Alauddin’s lips with the strength of a feather in the wind. The Sultan does not lash out or push him away, so he does it again. Alauddin’s lips unfold underneath his own, soft and searing like molten fire. Malik hasn’t done something like this in a very long time, but the teachings of inducing pleasure has deeply rooted in his mind— so he rolls his tongue and takes in all of Alauddin’s scent and breaths, before the taller, stronger man licks inside the crate of his mouth as if they are having a competition. However, Malik is not going to retreat, so he tugs himself closer and employs all the skills he has once practiced, finally drawing out his sire’s muffled moans.</p><p>They are both breathing heavily when their lips break apart. Malik greedily gulps for air, and Alauddin’s thumb is still pressed against the back of his neck. He is secretly disappointed that chances are not taken for any further advance, but the taste of his Sultan continues to linger on the tip of his tongue, and it makes his veins shudder.</p><p>“I have been fairly pleased with your servitude, Malik. You are to be rewarded. Perhaps I’ll make you an Amir— you have earned it. Have you any requests? Don’t be too ambitious, of course. You are not to be a Kotwal yet.”</p><p>“Let me lead your soldiers,” Malik finds himself asking. “Send me to Punjab. Let me prove my gratitude. I can assist Ghiyath al-Din Tughluq or Multani to fend off the Mongols, so that messages of victories will find their way back to Delhi.”</p><p>Alauddin frowns— which Malik has expected.</p><p>“You are testing my allowance. I permitted you to wing around in my garden, and now you want to pass the fort gate.”</p><p>“I will make the world your garden,” Malik picks up the Sultan’s hand and lands kisses on each one of his knuckles. “The front of my troops shall become your new garden wall. I will carve out Arabesques with the tip of my sword, and each one of them will bear the scriptures of your name.”</p><p>Alauddin sighs. <em>But he does seem shaken</em>, Malik guesses to himself. And if not, he is ready to plead for forgiveness. In the end, he is in no position to ask for anything— he belongs to the Sultan, body and soul, as he has promised years ago at the courtyard of Kara.</p><p>“You are to depart in the next few months, heading towards Ravi River,” the Sultan brushes through his hair, defeated, voice low and surprisingly gentle. “Talk to my Wazir first, and he’ll fill you in on more details— you will not be assisting Tughluq, because he’ll be assisting you.” Malik can feel Alauddin’s hands stroking down his spine. “But don’t be too full of yourself yet. I want you back as a whole person, nothing less, nothing more.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Pushing through the hills of Yadavas has not been an overwhelmingly pleasant experience. Malik misses all the comfort Delhi can provide: a solid roof, well-prepared dinners, a bed that does not immediately turn into mosquitoes’ nest every time he looks away from it.</p><p>He has ridden a similar route before, also with the cavalry, also towards his Sultan. At that time he travelled as part of the plunder, and now he is bringing in an even greater amount of riches and spoils. Besides, this time he has extra company— Malik is heading to Delhi with a fallen king, Ramachandra of Devagiri, since Alauddin has not seen his tributes in the past three years.</p><p>The man is nervous, Malik can tell. He had laughed in Malik’s face at first, for the Sultan of Delhi had sent over a young, beardless bed-slave. The laughters soon turned into teary beseeching once Malik had chopped off the heads of his royal guards.</p><p>“What will the Sultan do to me?” The king tightly frowns. “I heard that he was cruel, that he had murdered his father in law to take over his throne. Is that all true?”</p><p>“You should know, sire,” Malik hums, “Since you have done the same deed twenty-five years ago. Your cousin, the name was Ammana, I believe? I have heard the people of Devagiri cursing your name for such sin.”</p><p>“You are telling me to welcome death.”</p><p><em>If that’s the case, your head would already be on a stick.</em> Malik smirks but does not reply. People fear for the slave general, and the slave general belongs to his Sultan— so the Sultan must be even more hair-raising. Part of him finds it funny, when a supposedly god-chosen ruler gets all jittery over their own fate. Alauddin would never do that. His sire will tear and fight his way out of any traps set by fate, with the blood and bones of his foes in between his fingers. Malik knows so, because he will treat it the same way.</p><p>How does Alauddin see him now? He wonders. He has not seen Alauddin in many months.</p><p>He was made Na'ib-i Barbak after defeating Kopek on the Ravi riverbanks, and that was already a long time ago. When Malik first trod back from Punjab on his tall, bay-roan horse— a steed once belonged to the Mongolian general, Alauddin pulled him down into a frenzy of stifling embrace. The Sultan was pleased, and Malik was rewarded with heated, wandering lips upon his face and shoulders, among many other things.</p><p>And this time, Malik’s victory should be even more commendable. With King Ramachandra in Alauddin’s palm, the conquering of Yadavas is no harder than picking sour prunes off their branches. Will Alauddin be so generous and offer him more millets, maybe even the ones dipped in honey?</p><p>Malik wants to laugh. What has he become— It will take at least another month until they reach home, yet he’s already taken over by this bizarre avidity. He shakes away all the fervent thoughts, and decides to fright his captive just a bit more.</p><p>-</p><p>“<em>Hazar-Dinari</em>,” Alauddin tosses the vowels in between his teeth like plucking the strings on a Dotara. “The battlefields have been nothing but obliging to you, haven’t they?”</p><p>“By the Sultan’s blessings.”</p><p>Alauddin snorts and waves his hand. “You’re becoming very cheeky, Malik. Every city you conquer emboldens you. There will be a day when I send you on another expedition and see you come back a completely different person, a stranger.” He arches up from the petal-covered water, fully settling the weight of his head upon Malik’s hands.</p><p>Malik smiles. He quickly realizes that he’s only listening halfheartedly, too distracted by the smooth texture of Alauddin’s hair. He circles his thumbs at the back of his sire’s ears, gently scrubbing away any dust that has cinched up on him during the day. It feels good, dulcet—<em> intimate</em>. He combs through a loosely tangled knot, and the Sultan mumbles something mostly unintelligible.</p><p>“You are a war hero now, apparently.”</p><p>“Your royal officers only say that as adulation, and you know it,” Malik replies. “They think I’ve somehow poisoned your mind. Behind your back, I am nothing but an <em>useless, ungrateful, ingratiating sodomite</em>.”</p><p>“And which version is true?”</p><p>“Neither, my sire.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Alauddin reaches up abruptly and fastens his fingers around Malik’s wrists. He picks up his head and flashes Malik a scowl, which, from his upside-down angle, looks more like a smirky grin. “Are you not an <em>ungrateful</em>,” he pulls Malik’s forearms down into water, “<em>ingratiating</em>,” a hand on his front collar, dragging him forward with lion-like strength, forcing Malik to balance his whole body against the bathtub’s slithery brim, “sharp-witted <em>sodomite</em>?”</p><p>With a final wrench of the Sultan’s wrists, Malik falls face down into the bathtub, causing a loud splash. He squiggles ungracefully to push his nose and mouth back above water. Alauddin hisses, and Malik feels his broad chest suddenly pressing against his back.</p><p><em>Is the Sultan angry?</em> Alauddin is not famed for his sangfroid and composure, so Malik would not be overly surprised. However, his sire does not appear to have any torturous plan in mind. Instead, Alauddin’s arms only hold him tightly, keeping him still in between his chest and the bathtub wall. The linen clothes he is wearing are now completely soaked, so Malik tries his best not to squirm or exhale too hard— he doesn’t want the rough material to fret the Sultan’s skin. Alauddin settles his chin at the jointing part between Malik’s shoulder and neck, his breaths finding their way into the slave general’s ear.</p><p>“The water is everywhere now, Sultan.”</p><p>“Malik, my good Malik, tell me,” Alauddin sing-songs, ignoring Malik’s petty quarrel. “Of the two reputations— Are you neither, or are you both?”</p><p>His sire’s jealousy, it seems, has finally opened that door for Malik. After all the sleepless nights, he now has the chance to acquire what he’s always yearned for.</p><p>“Forgive me,” Malik closes his eyes and leans back into the warm, unyielding body. “You are right. Both versions are truthful.”</p><p>The Sultan’s kisses are like sunburns, and his fingers are messengers of insatiable lust. When Alauddin finally takes everything from him, devouring his soul and heart as a whole, Malik’s thighs tremble around his waist as if it is his first night. He maybe cried a little, against his own will.</p><p>-</p><p>They now meet in between surges and campaigns. Alauddin is pushing close to Fort Siwana, and Malik reaches down south across Narmada, across the river of Tungabhadra, to Upparapalli and Orugallu, even eyeing the further, wealthier coastal landscapes— Malik’s expeditions slow down for no one.</p><p>Well, no one, except for the man this world belongs to.</p><p>From Orugallu, Malik brings back Koh-i-Noor. <em>Mountain of Light</em>, it is called, mined from Gani Coulour— dredged up from clay pits on the banks of River Krishna, a diamond shining like the stars and moon. The tribute also includes twenty-thousand horses and a hundred elephants, filing up to Delhi through a glorious yet frustrating journey. When Malik’s heels finally knock on the familiar ashlar steps, he is completely worn out and smeared in dirt, calluses accumulating on his shoulders and purlicues.</p><p>The sky is dusking. After all the greetings and routined handover of newly-acquired riches, Malik drags his legs into his quarter and sits wearily in his bed. An open jug of Sharbat is waiting on his table. He mindlessly stares down into his own reflection, broken apart by bits of bael leaves. How strange it is, to think that he was once known for his stunning beauty. Malik is now rasped and grazed by his own choosing.</p><p>“Ah, the herdsman is back to his cabin.”</p><p>“Sultan.” Malik gets back onto his feet, almost tripping over from his cramping knees.</p><p>Alauddin nods at him and strides into the room poisedly. His beard is neatly trimmed and brushed, hair braided and rolls down against his embroidered, pale silk top. His sire has been prudently kept, or perhaps he has reached the fine balance among the chaos of everything else that’s going on in this world.</p><p>“You look tired, Malik.” For a brief second, he thinks the Sultan will order him to sit back down.</p><p>“Yes, my sire. I’ve been traveling for many weeks. But I’ll get better after some rest.”</p><p>“Are you telling me to leave you alone?” Alauddin perks up an eyebrow. “Men are killed just for talking to me like that.”</p><p>Parts of him do want to be left alone, or at least get all this dirt cleaned up first. <em>But he can’t say it, can he?</em> Malik shakes his head. “Never.”</p><p>Alauddin circles around him— and sniffles. Malik can’t imagine what foulness the Sultan must be sensing: his own sweat mixed with all that musk from the animals, brewed under a boiling sun for twelve hours straight. He is used to it now. But for someone not immediately returned from the battlefield or a hickory horse ride, he must stink like a poorly-treated livestock.</p><p>“The perfume,” his sire asks. “What is the name?”</p><p>“It’s Agar,” Malik does not realize that his fragrance is still palpable underneath all that filth. “<em>The Sinking Wood</em>.”</p><p>Alauddin nods. He then proceeds to launch onto the surface of Malik’s bed, stretching out his long, well-toned limbs like a sybaritic beast. “Join me now. I will allow you some rest.”</p><p>“You will have my dirt tainting your clothes, my sire.” Malik hesitates. <em>Why can’t he have a clean wet piece of rug first?</em></p><p>“I do what I want. And you do what I want too— don’t forget that. Take out some of your military knowledge and put the common sense back in, Malik, your head can only contain so much,” Alauddin pats the sheet next to him, not actually disgruntled. “Besides, do you think I really care? You have brought me Koh-i-Noor. A bristle of that stone is worth more than these clothes.”</p><p>Malik sighs and takes off his shoes. He carefully climbs up into bed, staring into Alauddin’s deep, sparkling eyes. The Sultan wriggles closer to him, tugging him between his arms, their bodies latching against each other to the fullest extent. Alauddin smells familiar, like jasmine and lotus flower, with a delicate hint of gardenia. Malik can’t quite place where he remembers the scent from, but it is fresh and pacifying like a pleasant memory.</p><p>He doubts that their current situation will lead to lovemaking— his Sultan must still have a basic set of hygiene standards. So in all, he doesn’t really know what Alauddin is planning at this moment.</p><p>Alauddin lightly bites at the auricle of his ear. If not for the needle-like stings, Malik would have actually dozed off into sleep just from the Sultan’s body heat.</p><p>“You have grown a lot, Malik Kafur. And it makes me worry. There is too much about you that I no longer know.”</p><p>“I deserve punishments for putting burdens on your mind, my sire,” Malik mumbles. “But you need not be so concerned. My days are tedious for the most part, and when I’m far away, even at the edge of Deccan, my mind only dreams of Delhi.”</p><p>“I don’t want you to dream of Delhi. I want you to think of<em> me</em>,” Alauddin strokes his hair with unforeseen enthusiasm. “But that would be fruitless on my part, wouldn’t it? I’m the Sultan of Delhi. There is no way you can lend me your full mind without getting distracted by the thought of my forts and palaces.”</p><p>Malik does not answer. On the contrary, when Alauddin raids his heart and daydreams, Malik rarely thinks of his Sultanate anymore. Perhaps he really has forgotten his place, always being so afar and all, because in his inventiveness the Sultan is always alone, hair flowing down, shirt torn from a battle of fists and skins.</p><p>“What did you do before being captured, Malik?” Alauddin asks suddenly.</p><p>“Before being captured and gifted to you?”</p><p>“No, even before that.”</p><p>“Ah,” Malik tries to recall. “I lived near Khambhat as a kid. I've done a fair amount of swimming, in the river, at the bay— not any longer, being in the cities all the time these days. We had a cattle and two goats— I was rather close to the goats. I would hunt and fish for my sisters as well. There were four of them, one older than me, and three younger.”</p><p>“Anything more exciting to tell me about?”</p><p>“I saw a leopard once.”</p><p>“Oh?” Alauddin hums.</p><p>“I saw it in the woods, not the kind we usually see. It was blue and grey, like smoke or tree barks.” Malik can still picture the animal behind his eyes. “I thought I was going to die for sure, but it did not attack me. It just stood there and <em>purred</em>.”</p><p>Alauddin chortles. “Leopards don’t purr, Malik. I don’t want a made-up story. What’s next, you slaying the animal with your bare hands?”</p><p>Malik sways his head.</p><p>“I am not lying, and no eight-year-old can kill a beast like that, no matter how determined or agile he is. I had an urge to follow the leopard when it stood up and started walking away, leaving my village behind and wandering into the forest. But I did not.”</p><p>Alauddin fits a knee in between Malik’s legs. “If you did follow it— You wouldn’t have been sold to Khambhat. But you might have become a nice boy-dinner for that beast.”</p><p>“Or maybe I’d return home safely, only to be captured again by Nusrat Khan, or someone else in Jalaluddin’s army.”</p><p>The idea seems to amuse Alauddin. He taps at Malik’s crown with a slovenly rhythm, lost in imaginations.</p><p>“What if I’m not a Sultan, but a naive, young soldier going on his first surge,” Alauddin asks teasingly, “And you are still a free man, a peasant’s child. What would you say to me then, if you saw me resting in your barn, and my horse stealing water from your cattle’s troughs?”</p><p>“I’d ask you to take me away, my sire.”</p><p>Alauddin laughs. At first, Malik recognizes it as some sort of light-heated tittering that comes and goes very quickly, but Alauddin continues laughing. He buries his nose in the crook of Malik’s neck, trembling from his own laughter, until Malik can feel the wetness on his own skin from tears squeezing out of his Sultan’s eyes. His voice is joyous and mirthful. For reasons unbeknown to him, Malik can feel a slight burn across his nose bridge. He wants to sob. He wants to kneel and kiss the mount of this world.</p><p>-</p><p>Alauddin can’t read or write, maybe except for his own name. When Malik starts receiving letters from his sire, he knows that someone else has lay down the words for him— the words of passion, and sometimes needless whines. Each letter is of a different handwriting, often rinsed with sweat or tears, so Malik assumes that the Sultan is utilizing the final hours of everyone he decides to kill, as long as they can also pick up a pen. These poor men’s final thoughts are Malik’s hair, skin and kisses, mixed with the dooming fear of death— and he does not know how to feel about that exactly.</p><p>He now governs Devagiri, at least until the revolts die down or the Sultan finds someone equally suitable and trustworthy. He misses Alauddin’s wild demeanor and fiery voice, and even his unpredictable temper, more or less. He is a Na’ib now, and he has the respect of everyone in court— the ones who have the potential to live and thrive, to be concise, so maybe he is lacking someone who would smack him around a little.</p><p>The answer could be simpler, Malik has to admit. Alauddin Khilji has been written into his destiny since a long time ago, even before he first saw the man through a lithesome white veil. His sire’s name is dawn in his scripture of fate, with millions of gleams linking him and all other parts of the universe. In his destiny, his Sultan is the star of love.</p><p>-</p><p>The Sultan and his subjects are not supposed to have any alcohol. Religion is half of it, the other half is that alcohol has the ability to tinker minds, and reduce them to a feverish state. It is bad for laboring or communicating.</p><p>However, for noblemen in courts, the rules don’t actually apply— before Alauddin’s effort in prohibition, at least. He was a heavy drinker back then, and an example must be set. For the past fifteen years, Malik has mostly seen Alauddin sorber. But in the past few days, it seems that Alauddin has picked up the old habit again— for it appears to be the most effective way to ease his growing, nauseating headache.</p><p>Now that Malik is back in Delhi, a large portion (if not all) of his free time is spent with his sire. He has served Alauddin in many aspects: as an assassin, a menial, a war general, a regent; and now, his nursing maid too. Alauddin can be found in Malik’s quarter, head resting in his lap, the younger man’s fingertips massaging his temples until night turns into day. Malik has no complaint for it— He needed a justification to be close to his sire, and now he has it. On one hand, he genuinely wishes Alauddin a speedy recovery from all the suffering; but on other hand, he selfishly prays that the moment never ends.</p><p>“My body is going against me now, Malik. I have conquered too much, and now they are eating me alive like a piece of Aloo Bukhara.”</p><p>“You’re drunk— It’s becoming quite late. Should I help you to bed? ”</p><p>“You too, Malik Kafur, my own Na’ib has no respect for his emperor now.” It’s the old whine again. Malik shakes his head. “Fifteen years ago when you were only a nameless slave, it was all <em>‘my Sire’</em>, <em>‘my Sultan’</em>—” Alauddin mimics a younger Malik’s voice as if he was an old nanny who had just burned her throat. “You’d kiss the ground I walked on. And now? Nothing. Shushing me to bed like I’m a spoiled little brat.”</p><p>
  <em>You are getting dangerously close to becoming just that.</em>
</p><p>“I never sounded like that,<em> Sultan</em>.” Malik pecks at Alauddin’s forehead. “And with spirits like this, you are going to be wrestling with your soldiers in no time.”</p><p>“I don’t like it when you try to be funny.” <em>Tell me more</em>, the crinkles around his eyes say.</p><p>Malik clears his throat. “I overheard your ministers calling me <em>Malika</em> in passing conversations. Not <em>Queen of the World</em>, but Queen of Alauddin instead.”</p><p>“Oh?” Alauddin picks up his head a little. By the look in his eyes, Malik knows that someone’s neck will end up under his blade tomorrow. “They are giving you a promotion then. A Sultan’s love is the highest prize of all.”</p><p>“And how should I repay you?”</p><p>Alauddin rolls over and sits up next to him. He doesn’t try to dispute the unspoken premise of Malik’s question, nor to give him a proper answer. Instead, he pushes Malik down by the shoulders and settles on top of his waist. With coarsed voice and unpolished tones, he speaks of life and death, of clouds and thunders, of swallows and doves and pebble-colored leopards. He speaks of a man in all white, a king’s body held up only by the arrows piercing through his spine, and the tip of burning fires against the endless night sky.</p><p>Alauddin’s breath smells like roses and plums.</p><p>And Malik listens. Before his sire, he lays down his entire being, the prime of his life. He will be at the Sultan’s service, until everything comes to an end.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title is from the a song by The Black Heart Procession. I don't usually write angst so I leave it at an open ending</p><p>Hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are so very welcomed because this is a ghost ship and i am lonely &gt;.&lt;</p><p>My tumblr: <a href="https://juicejuicebaby.tumblr.com">juicejuicebaby</a>. i am ALWAYS happy to talk about pdmvt please talk to me about pdmvt</p></blockquote></div></div>
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